Beneath the Cool Exterior
by TinyStar
Summary: [Unfinished] The ER staff visit a collegue as he lies in a coma. Revelations of his haunting past and their feelings ensue..
1. Prologue

**Beneath the Cool Exterior**

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing, except for the bad grammar and spelling mistakes. ER and any characters I may use aren't mine!

**Authors Note:** All comments, especially constructive criticism, are greatly appreciated. 

**Spoilers:** None 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Chapter 1 – Prologue_

~*~

The ER was painfully hot. Scrubs stuck uncomfortably against skin and a faint veil of fatigue hung suspended in the atmosphere, feeding slowly off the humidity of the air. Trolleys squeaked, lethargically pushing their way through the crowded hallways, banging tiredly through doors until the energetic ding of the elevator sounded. Life bustled on noisily, carelessly, relentlessly.

He shifted, albeit slightly, peeling his sticky hands from the coldness of the stairs. A lonely figure, forgotten, his gaze moved from the grimy specks of dust and dirt that lay seeping from the cracks in the tiles to his hands. They were blackened, encrusted with filth from the unwashed floor and stained with an ever growing sense of despair. Confidence, once a burgeoning force within his personality had yielded to dismal uncertainty. He was drowning among the unending sea of faces which passed him by, the hurried haze of the ER doing little to comfort or distract him.

Patients came and went, but he remained motionless, lost in a world of his own making, haunted as old familiar feelings, long dormant, slowly surged from a hollow abyss within his soul. Feelings that were never forgotten, but which the transience of time gently numbed until they could hardly be felt at all. Loneliness. Fear. The emotions he claimed never to feel, though always completely aware that they formed an almost integral part of his being. He could conceal them easily between thick layers of bravado and attitude, but yet they were omnipresent, a ticking time bomb waiting anxiously to explode.

Her harsh words had pierced him deeply, though he was barely able to admit it. They had left her lips angrily and ceaselessly one by one assaulted his eardrums until his head pounded. Blazing, steel bullets fiercely hammering in the message of what was now a grim and unforeseen reality with slow and painful resonance.  He had never seen eye to eye with her. Not until that moment. 

Their eyes had met, ominously narrowed in anticipation of the silent, deadly combat they were about to engage in. She wasn't searching for any spark of uncharted goodness that could lie hidden beneath his cowboy facade, but rather penetrating right down to core of his existence. Trying to burn him unmercifully into submission with a fixed, unrelenting stare.  

It was then that his laughing had stopped, cruelly smothered by dawning realisation.

She had never made any attempt to disguise the contempt in which she held him. Neither had she ever made any effort to understand or get to know him. To her the man before her eyes was a thick, pungent cloud of confidence and attitude. His entire demeanour was the epitome of all that she despised, one so thickly shrouded in self gratification and sheer stubbornness that he was oblivious to any possible consequences of his actions. He was a law unto himself, unpredictable and unreachable, even with the strongest and bitterest of words, yet he was crumbling before her. It was an unexpected victory.

The silence, though deafening and foreboding, had brought with it a paralysing lull in their exchange. It was borrowed time, granted in the middle of their struggle, for him to battle with realisation. She was serious. He was no longer wanted there, he no longer belonged there. A powerful surge of emotion had caught him off guard, propelling him backwards while vehemently squeezing the last ounce of air from his ailing lungs. Venomous words that had already been spoken seemed to ring, metallic and true from each corner of the trauma room, conveniently bouncing from an open tray of instruments. Words that were the only ammunition they both possessed. Why then was he the one lying wounded, unable to retaliate?     

"I have a kid to support"

Even now the desperate tone of that sentence echoed clearly in his head, becoming louder and more forceful with every heartbeat. It had been unintended, an unplanned statement, a final plea to anyone who was listening before he faced the inevitable acceptance of his fate. After their release there had been no point in fighting. Any last trickle of reason had been extinguished from his mind, written off in one devastating blow. Weakened he had screamed out, defeated but unwilling to succumb to having the penultimate say. Once again he was abandoned with no sense of belonging.

His focus turned to the wall. The paint had begun to peel revealing the plasterboard below it. Soft cobwebs had formed in the corners, now dried out by the  unbearable heat. Acutely aware of his surroundings he stood up. An awkward sensation crept through him, tingling its way upwards as blood pooled in his feet, momentarily rendering him blind. Forced to a halt, he waited as blackness yielded to random pinpricks of colour and finally he found himself once again amongst the swirling rush of people. The loneliness and fear he had foreshadowed announced its arrival, oozing out from every corner and crevasse in the room. Crawling, it surrounded him, sinking in through every pore in his skin, it's vile stench slowly choking him. 

Each breath became a struggle. He could feel his eyes bulging to the beat of his blood as it coursed through the arteries in his temples. He was running manically, aimlessly. A trapped animal, with no regard for direction, only an insatiable desire to escape. Foot placed in front of foot, arms swinging, he sprinted. There was no time to breathe, even less to think. Unable to see again, but this time blinded by a bleary mass of colours obscured by his dark eyelashes. He was suffocating as his own thoughts tightened their grip around his neck and head, gasping for solace for even a second.

Instantly there was nothing but intense pain. Slow throbbing sensations escalating into violent pulsations. The car had made its presence felt before he had time to see it. Suddenly surrounded he heard their voices. Sporadic comments leaking out of the wilderness. Voices he recognised, but couldn't quite place. Concerned faces looking down at him from above. He was torn between staying or entering the inky blackness that threatened to devour him. There was a surreal vagueness clouding his mind, making him dizzy but at the same time numbing his pain. He felt his head fall abruptly to the side and it was then that he saw it. The river of red meandering among the pebbles and rough edges of the road under his aching body. He stared glassy-eyed as tiny, dirty tributaries began to form, their flow laminar at first but quickly becoming turbulent. All notions of clarity fast disappearing he tried to turn his head back around. 

Darkness fell in the middle of the day. And then there was nothing.......

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	2. Loss

_Chapter 2 – Loss_

~*~

"David, David."

More voices, but this time they were persistent, haggling him, jeering at him. He wanted to scream at them to go away, to leave him in peace, but this time there was no escaping them. They became louder, more forceful until finally they succeeded in battering their way through the thin barrier that protected his mind, conjuring up those memories he had long forgotten, those which had been pushed and compressed into skeletal remains in some dark, unmapped corner of his soul.

"David."

One voice rose powerfully above the rest demanding his full subconscious attention, and trampling everything else into quietness. Flashes of colour and broken images appeared as he concentrated on it, until the blackness was no more.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"You're a smart intelligent young man. You, more so than anyone else in this class has the ability to go far. But only if you put your mind to it. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He hopped from one foot to the other, until his grubby hand caught hold of his shoe and he stood wavering on one leg. Sadly, he looked over at the bin where the crumpled remains of his paper jet lay. It had been one of the best he had ever made. For once his chubby fingers had managed to get the folds just right so that the plane appeared perfectly symmetrical, each wing a murky off-white colour, identical to the one on the opposite side. 

It had hit his target beautifully with precision he could only have dreamt of. To his surprise it had stuck, like a dart in the wall, the point of its nose buried deep in one of the woollen loops of Mrs Muniz's cardigan. 

Mrs Muniz looked down at the skinny young boy before her. Instinctively she knew that there was no point in explaining about the opportunities that the world offered to him. His head was now turned towards the window, where the rest of his classmates were outside playing football. Her heart was heavy. Each year brought with it the same disappointment, the same feeling of helplessness, a broken record constantly repeating the same tune over and over again to her tired ears. She didn't know how much more of it she could take. All she could do was observe these bright, young children who were unable to comprehend that the world was at their feet and watch as their desire for nothing but fun and their lack of ambition led them nowhere. She hoped she could influence a few of them, but for the majority she knew it was a case of wasted potential.

"David. You can go home now."     

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The house was cold, no different from normal. He shivered, ever so slightly and pulled his threadbare jacket around the bony contours of his shoulders. His stomach grumbled, a noisy reminder that he had not yet eaten that day. 

The iron pot was heavy and cold as he dragged it out from the mouldy cubby hole under the sink. He pulled a chair over to the stove so that he could reach the back ring, because that was where his Mom always cooked the soup. The tall cupboard was the most daunting. Standing large and sturdy, even its hard, heavy wooden doors were suggestive of the precarious task that lay in front of those wishing to gain access to it. If he stood on tip-toe he could just about reach it from the top of the counter board and retrieve a tin of cream of tomato. That was his favourite flavour.

He turned on the cooker and began his slow ascent up the stairs. Each step creaked dangerously in the silence of the house. He gazed up into the darkness of the next floor, before cautiously stepping out onto the dirty, soiled carpet of the landing. It was always the same fear that reached out to haunt him, the fear of being completely alone in his dim surroundings. 

"Mom."

"Mom. Are you there?"

He spoke softly, tenderly as he gently pushed open her bedroom door. The curtains were drawn and the room was lit only by faint rays of sunlight feebly trying to fight their way through the thick material. Green moss flourished on the walls, encouraged by the damp and the stench of rotting timber burned his nostrils. 

A second more pungent smell struck a chord of horror in his heart as timidly he entered further in. She had been sick again. He stared repulsed, but fascinated, in a way only an seven year old could be, by the mountainous heap of vomit keeping his mother company on the bed sheet beside her. 

She was awake but too weak too speak, too tired to move. He frowned as his small figure took in the emaciated body in front of him. Her face was gaunt and wizened, elderly in appearance, her legs, two pokers sticking out at awkward angles from under the cover of a faded pink nightgown. Sores, like hollow canyons crossed haphazardly along the thin surface of her thighs. He had dressed them as well as he could before going to school that morning, but still the bandages had managed to slip down revealing the weeping open wounds and the dirty, paper thin flesh surrounding them. He choked back a cry of horror.

The sheet was tightly tucked in under the mattress. She was too heavy to lift, but summoning up all his strength he managed to free it and pull it out from underneath her, using gentle tugs so as not to cause her any pain. She sighed as he removed the disgusting aroma from beside her and dropped it in the hall, a messy bundle. He would need to use the washing machine again.

Frustrated he padded to the hot press to fetch a clean sheet, but its open door yielded nothing but bare shelves. For reasons unknown, even to him, he had searched the press. He was aware that it had been empty for the past few days. Maybe it was the silent prayer he muttered, the one where he hoped just one little thing could go right for a change. He had opened the door and any glimmer of hope in his heart was abruptly snuffed out. 

Close to tears, but willing himself not to cry, he entered his own room and stripped the sheet from his bed. Long, forceful pulling motions that moved the mattress away from the wall. It provided a small sense of immediate relief and he allowed his hot tears to flow for a brief second. 

He put the sheet on one half of the bed and then tenderly and carefully rolled her over so that he could cover the other half. He hated moving her. His strength was scarcely enough to hold her and he was terrified of letting her go prematurely instead of slowly lowering her back down. Every change of position made her gasp for air as her breathing became shallower and more irregular. Sometimes she would cry out, a weak pitiful yelp barely audible, but crystal clear to him all the same. He stood back to catch his breath.

"Thank you, Dave"

The words were soft, almost blown away by the draft which gusted across the room. She opened her eyes briefly and looked at him. He gave her a crooked smile.

"Hi Mom. I think the soup is ready now. It's tomato. I'll get some for you."

He scurried lightly down the stairs to where his soup lay bubbling cheerfully on the cooker. He found a bowl and dipped it into the pot – he had misplaced the ladle some time ago. Deep down in the pit of his stomach a cool feeling told him that she probably wouldn't be able to eat it, but he knew that he had to make her try. For him even the smallest spoonful was a huge victory.

She was in rare form that evening. Between them they managed to clear the whole bowl, though being honest he had eaten most of it. Still, she had smiled quite a bit which had made him feel more at ease around her. They had talked, had a long proper conversation about school and hockey, after months of forced silence. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe there was some miniscule vessel of hope that had somehow found its way to him. He laughed and stroked her cheek. It was glowing and for the first time in a long time her eyes were wide and bright. She turned to him suddenly.

"You're a good boy, Dave"

He froze, unable to correct her. She was wrong, she hadn't seen what he had done in school that day with the aeroplane. He opened his mouth to tell her the truth, but the words just wouldn't come. Maybe it would be better if she believed he was good. Then she wouldn't have to worry about him.

She continued on,

"Life won't always turn out the way you want it to. Sometimes things happen that you have no control over. You'll never be alone, you have yourself. You might feel scared and lost, but you've got to keep your head up and do your best. Always do your best, Dave. Always"

She emphasised the last word by nodding her head and looked at him wistfully. He wondered if she was talking about what had happened between her and his Dad, this mythical figure whose existence was only in his imagination, a person he had formed himself through years of wishful thinking. She probably was. He wished he could ask her more about him, but she already had enough pain in her body without him creating torment in her soul. It was getting late anyway, and she needed her rest. He gently tucked her in and picked up the empty bowl. 

"Goodnight, Mom. I love you."

"I love you, too Dave."

She placed a hand on her heart and slowly shut her eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There was a bitterness in the morning air that woke him up with a shudder. He was physically shaking as he parted with the thin quilt and wrapped his dressing gown tightly around his scrunched up little body. His bed and its bare mattress had been cold and uninviting, but even so he had eventually managed to drift off into a light slumber. He unfolded his limbs, bracing himself for the blast of freezing air he knew would strike him as he stood up.

She was not in bed. He gaze shifted rapidly around the room, eventually settling on the armchair over by window. The curtains had been dragged open and the last of the night stars peered in at him, winking.

A foot, cold and blue had avoided the dusty blanket which covered her as she sat. He crept over, a tight feeling welling up from a place deep within his chest. Her eyes were shut. She was peacefully oblivious to the world. He felt his hand move slowly towards her cheek, rubbing it as if trying to warm it and bring her back. He climbed onto her knee and sat motionless with his arms tightly wrapped around her, never wanting to let go. 

Rays of sun strayed in slowly through the glass, soothingly illuminating her face. He wondered what she had been looking at. The stars, the moon? Whatever it was it had made her smile, she would hold that vision within her forever. She was at peace in a world without pain and though his heart was breaking, he knew it was best to let her go.

He buried his face in her neck, his body wrenching with each uncontrollable sob. Scarcely moving, a paralysing fear swept over him. It didn't numb him, he could still feel the trapped pain as it gnawed away at his insides looking for release. Instead it froze him momentarily, allowing his thoughts to prevail, quietly lulling him into a shocking epiphany. For the first time in his short life, he was truly alone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The colours began to shift rapidly. The image became bleary and unfocussed as it slowly disappeared from view. Subconsciously he cried out to it to come back, but he was too weak, too fragile to capture it and hold it firmly in his mind. He tried desperately to pin it down, tugging until finally it slipped from his grasp.  

Colour yielded to darkness and once again there was nothing. She was gone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


	3. Guilt of the Innocent

_Chapter 3 – Guilt of the Innocent_

****

**~*~**

Weaver stood by the door, motionless and pensive. The room was cold, sterile and uninviting. She paused, allowing her body to collide willingly with the thick wave of silence slowly emanating from it, wincing slightly as it burrowed through skin and muscle, cutting her right to the bone. Leaving behind a vague aftertaste, heavy and chilling, it was pierced at regular intervals by a shrill beep slicing through the air with sharp ease. His heartbeat.

Almost too afraid to look, she averted her gaze to the floor, although she knew exactly what to expect. Somehow she felt differently this time. This was not what was supposed to happen. She had despised Dave's lackadaisical attitude towards his work. She was meant to be feeling some sort of relief, not guilt. He was only meant to be gone. Not dead....  

Tubes, gauze and wire exiting every orifice of his sunken form. Man-made but capable of sustaining god-given life - for the moment anyway. He lay cold, frozen, his fingers balled into determined fists. His skin was clammy to her touch, though cool it burned her hand and she recoiled sharply in pain. Shocked she sat down by his side, too stunned to move or even look away again. Circles of red and purple rippled in waves away from his eyes clashing furiously with each yellow cheek. His temples were now awash with a delicate, intricate pattern of bluish bruising, appearing slowly yet gradually darkening and concealing the smooth paled skin beneath.

Harsh words, a flurry of exchanges swirled around in her mind. Shouting distinctly at first, but soon becoming indecipherable as they mingled together, a spectacular chorus of insults. Bitter, penetrating words. Words that she had spoken not so long ago. Words that she had never expected to have any effect on him. But they had. She, the victor, had watched as he crumbled, as her words had finally managed to gain a reaction from this seemingly unreachable man. At first she thought that maybe she had taught him some kind of life lesson, but the unmistakable scent of her victory had long since turned sour, it's sweet smell reacting vigorously with the tragic situation to produce something bitter and unforeseen. Guilt.

It wasn't her fault. Of that she was certain. This horrific occurrence was not her doing, but yet some small voice inside her bore a simple message which made her blood run cold. She could have been nicer to him, treated him better. She winced mid-thought, as though some force unseen was twisting her insides with slow, gut-wrenching movements. He had deserved all that she had said to him and more, but her attempts to justify her actions to herself were in vain. She still felt nauseated by what she had observed, was still shocked by the out come of events. 

She shut her eyes, taking a necessary minute to regain her composure. Standing up carefully, she stole a final glance at his withered form. She muttered as if trying hard to convince herself - 

"This isn't my fault...."   

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He stood alone, gazing out the window. Watching as one by one the drops of rain fell, bouncing off the glass and tricking slowly down, their paths crossing to form fragile patterns across his range of vision. The sky was heavy and grey. Clouds hung low as though suspended by whatever rays of sunshine were hiding behind them trying to escape. The garden outside was dreary and silent, the once-grey pavement now a shiny, wet black. He could almost feel the damp reaching to him with both arms, through the thin pane of glass.    

"It's not my fault...... It's not my fault."

He silently repeated the words in his head, praying that eventually they would sink in and he would believe them. It was not his fault that his Mom was dead. But it was. Maybe if he had been better. Maybe if he had been grown-up. Then he would have been able to buy her medicine. He would have known what to do. He could have saved her. 

He turned and looked about the room. The other children were busily playing with toy trucks and dolls. The carers were sitting in the corner drinking steaming hot mugs of tea, chatting to one another. He didn't want to join in. Somehow thinking, working things out was proving much more important at that moment. They rarely spoke to him anyway. He didn't mean much to them, just another child with nowhere to go, no-one to turn to. 

Perhaps they could see through him. Maybe they knew that inside he felt nothing but an overwhelming sense of guilt. They might even see that he was the one responsible... He shut his eyes briefly. He couldn't even bear to think about it, but it would explain why they never spoke to him.

"Whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

A hand gently touched his arm, wakening him from his thoughts. There was a slight pause as the owner of the soft voice came into focus. A small girl, his own age stood in front of him, earnestly looking into his face. She had long, blonde hair that was tied back into a messy pony tail. Her eyes were a piercing, shade of blue, almost like ice. Of thin build, her oversized yellow t-shirt and shorts made her seem even more scrawny and under-nourished than she was.  She gazed at him, as she awaited his reply, angling her head with a coy smile to reveal an ugly bruise on her neck.

"What's it to you anyway?"

The words escaped his mouth before he had time to think. Harsh and strong, they grated against his eardrums introducing a feeling of immediate, intense regret.  Her smile faded into nothing and she quickly scurried away from him, crushed. He turned back to the window, mentally kicking himself. Some of the other kids there might have deserved that, but he knew Janey didn't. He realised that she was only being nice to him, just as she was nice to everyone there. Now he had probably ruined whatever chance he had of becoming friends with her. Then again, he could apologise later, maybe bring her some sweets. He still had his packet of crisps from his lunch in school that day. He inhaled deeply and snuck a quick glance in her direction. Bad idea. He caught her eye and hurriedly swung back around, exhaling sharply.    

Why was she always smiling? He didn't think she was particularly happy. The others thought she was lucky because she still had her Dad. Every Sunday he arrived, open-armed as though he had been anxiously waiting all week to see his little daughter and every Sunday she would leave them all behind as she took his hand and headed out for the day. That was how it appeared, but it wasn't how things were. 

From the moment he had arrived in the place he had been struck by her smile. It was an usually large smile, one that seemed to light up her entire face. However when he looked closely he was eerily scared by what he saw. Her smile never reached her eyes. In fact her eyes were hollow. Upon staring into her soul, he found some sort of void, a sense of loss, of great bereavement. He never questioned her. He didn't need to. The reality was barely hidden beneath the thin facade she had created.

Every Sunday she would stand in the hall upstairs. She would hear them call her. She never wants to go, but she never resists, only delays a short while. Every minute she can stay is a minute spared with him. Every Sunday evening she returns, sleeves down arms folded, smiling. She gives nothing away, nothing seems different except for an ugly bruise sitting out of place upon her slender neck. Her clothes conceal the other consequences of his violent temper.

Why doesn't anybody notice? Anybody but him? Realisation that those in authority were blind came early for him. They followed the rule book right down to every last detail, too afraid to break away even for a second for fear of confrontation or accusations. Every thing must be done according to some rule. Distance must always be maintained at all costs. Sometimes they would become involved, but there was always some limit to the help that they could give and to the extent of emotional involvement allowed. 

Seeing was believing, or so they said. But there was nothing he could do when people refused to see what was in front of them. It all boiled down to the same fact: if he was older he could do something to help. He would have been able to help his Mom. He would be able to help Janey. 

Frustration grew slowly in the pit of his stomach. By now it had stopped raining and the sun was shyly peeking out from the cover of the clouds. The light trailed slowly across the rows of plants and vegetables before settling in his eyes. It blinded him momentarily and then it was gone, moving off into the distance. It was in that brief moment of darkness that he saw the light of inspiration. Before life was just some vast emptiness stretching out in front of him. Now it had purpose. He knew what he was going to do. He was going to become a doctor. A proper doctor. He could make the others see what they were missing out on. He might not be able to help Janey now, but somehow, somewhere he might be able to make a difference in someone else's life. 

Mom had told him to always do his best. That was what he was determined to do. He rummaged around in his schoolbag, his hands closing in on what he was looking for. He pulled out a bag of crisps and stuffed them in his pocket. It was time to make amends.   

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* 


	4. Soul Survivors

_Chapter 4 – Soul Survivors_

~*~

Time was standing still again. He could feel it brush his neck as it passed him by, but he remained motionless, caught in one moment, one scene that often surfaced from deep within his memory. Something suppressed, which he so longed to keep inside was once again dragged to the forefront where it could breed and prosper, barely challenged by his feeble desire to cast it away and rid his mind of burgeoning torment. 

Death. Death and dying. He had long ago reached the conclusion that they represent a strange sort of fear. One which terrifies the living but yet still manages to fascinate them, a compelling fact of life. Death is, after all, the only sure thing in life, but it is only because of life that it is known to exist. 

Mark Greene pressed the button on the lift. His fingertips gently touching the plastic. It was warm in comparison to the harsh coolness of the metal which surrounded it. The soft ding interrupted his train of thought and he stepped cautiously into the elevator, watching closely as the door shut behind him. This was one visit he could not make alone. It was hard, so hard to see what he had not so long ago felt, to see as an observer a life hanging in the balance. He had seen images like this in the ER so often since his brush with death, but this was different. They were people, faces and though involved in their care it had been possible to remain emotionally unattached. They were merely travellers, whose passage happened to lead them through where he stood. Sometimes they tarried awhile, but they always continued on to wherever their journey would take them. They were of distant interest to him. This was someone more real, a person he knew, a colleague and he realised the moment he heard the news that involvement was unavoidable.     

He had almost died, and surreal as it still seemed, it was a reality he faced - faces - with every passing day. Every day as he wakes he feels a chill shivering through his body. An unmistakable coldness, and just for a minute he recalls that moment. That moment when he thought all hope was lost, when his only reason for being alive at all was to bide time until the inevitable. And for the duration of that minute he pauses, waiting for a noise, a distraction, for real life to intrude and push those thoughts away.  

In coming close to death, he had learned to appreciate life. To appreciate or despise, the choice is ours for the taking. He had found out how precious his time was, every extra day spent with Rachel, Ella and Elizabeth was cherished deep in his heart as a memory, a source of comfort to be drawn upon when he felt tired, insecure or alone. Like a child who has a favourite blanket, he keeps those images with him always, so there can never be a moment of solitude, only the laughter of his daughters ringing softly, barely audible in the back of his mind. A gentle smile played on his lips as he thought of them. To him they were the world, the reason he had fought with every fibre of his being to stay alive.

The elevator opened and he walked slowly up to where Elizabeth stood waiting by the wall. She was tired, her curls hung down loosely framing  her face. She turned as he slipped his arm in hers. They sighed collectively, leaning on each other for support as they walked towards the room.   

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

"Are you there God? It's me, Dave...... or David if you're into formalities."

He laughed sardonically. It looked as though Janey's Judy Blume obsession was finally rubbing off on him after all. He could never understand why that one book held such fascination for her, just as he had surprised himself by alluding to its title at that moment. He'd always had a strange relationship with God. One which, in his mind didn't exist. The feeling was mutual, or at least he liked to think so. God didn't seem to acknowledge him and he didn't acknowledge God. Usually. 

Sometimes, when he was alone he would call out in desperation. He never expected an answer, he never had any intentions of asking for help. Somehow it was just a subconscious reflex, something which happened, an involuntary gesture. When he had turned his back on everything and lay thrown upon his knees, begging the world for another chance, it was strangely comforting to believe that somewhere in the great beyond someone might be listening to him. Someone might hear his voice. Someone would be there to carry him when he felt as though he could no longer go on. In times of trouble he had someone to turn to, although he was never quite sure if that person was really there.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Every day is so wonderful,_

_Then suddenly it's hard to breathe,_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

In times of trouble. The trouble that was a particular constant in his life. Unwanted, but omnipresent, it followed him closely, a veiled cloud ready to engulf him at the first opportunity. It was easy to submit to it. Easier than fighting. Loneliness was choking, stifling to the extent that it often caused his eyes to water. He always suppressed his desire to cry, maintaining his cool exterior at all costs, though inside a torrent of feelings lay deeply submerged beneath these unshed tears.

It made him feel better, as though he did not lead such a solitary existence. Disobedience was a skill acquired through years of practice. It made the others laugh, it made him feel popular, wanted and needed by them. Somehow being labelled a troublemaker by an adult was never so bad when he had the support of those his own age. It was powerful, he could make them smile, or even giggle by a single smart comment or mischievous deed.      

Thinking always was painful. It lead to detailed analysis of events he tried to forget. Images of his Mom. Somehow when he was most vulnerable her face would come back to haunt him. After misdeeds her voice, telling him to do his best would echo through his mind until his conscience could not withstand any more assaults.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_Now and then I get insecure,_

_From all the pain. I'm so ashamed,_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Hiding behind laughter, disguising his shame by exuding confidence. It had always been so easy when he was young. Then there came a time when he was no longer funny. He had never wanted to grow up, but he had no control over it. Everyone else did, and no matter how hard he tried to cling onto his childhood it was a futile effort. Occasional lapses were now never seen as comical. They were frowned upon, treated with disgust. He felt exposed, stripped of his outer facade.

"In other words none of us thinks you're much of a doctor"

The music, the laughter stopped, momentarily extinguished by that one line which had suddenly entered his thoughts. It was out of place among his childhood memories, but yet it remained, a throbbing pulsation drowning out his previous recollections. Those words had been meant, they had been heartfelt and it was an effort for him to ignore them and return to his passive slumber.

Like the opening of Pandora's box, once heard the words seemed to amplify themselves, growing in booming intensity. He subconsciously put his hands over his ears in a vain effort to stop them penetrating through him even further... 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_I am beautiful,_

_No matter what they say,_

_Words can't bring me down,_

_So don't you bring me down today._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Slowly, after what was an eternity he removed his hands to find the pain more bearable. It was as though he were in a glass box and the words were bouncing time after time in awkward angles from the sides and roof. He could hear them clearly, and yet they were no longer hurting him, no longer touching him. He stretched out a hand, but there was nothing, no glass, just an empty space. There was no confinement. Just a vast openness concealed by a thin mist. Perhaps he was walking in circles, he couldn't quite tell, but in this place, wherever it was, he was taking refuge. He didn't need to cry out for help because there was no hurt, only slow revelations of times he had already passed through, of paths he had already travelled. He didn't know why he was there, if there even was a reason, but he accepted it whole-heartedly. He believed that somewhere there is a place for each person, a place where they feel safe, wanted, secure. Nowhere on Earth had yielded such a place for him. No-one on Earth had made him feel anything more than the pathetic person he knew he was. He may be alone in this vast wasteland of his own creation, but he would never feel inferior. He would never feel as though he was but a burden to the world. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Elizabeth sat down beside him, and took his hand in hers. It was cold, lifeless and heavy. Mark stood behind her in silence, his hand resting gently upon her shoulder, a gesture of support. The familiarity of the situation had struck her deeply as soon as she had entered the room. At times she found herself blinking, making sure that the person in front of her was Dave, and not Mark. Entering the room had been the hardest part, but now she found herself searching for something to say. If there was anything that needed to be said.

As the last of the day's sunshine crept slowly in through the gaps in the blinds she squeezed his hand. As gloaming shadows were cast about the room, she found herself whispering softly to him. She remembered times past, words exchanged. Maybe he had heard the comments about him which were spoken only in his absence. Maybe somewhere inside he knew what they all thought of him. Even now she could still recall the day, early on in his years at County when she had made her opinion of his attitude perfectly clear to him. Her chosen words still resonated, distinct and perfectly articulated syllables, through the contours of her mind. She didn't regret saying them, but she wondered why they had suddenly crept into her thoughts. 

She had seen him earlier that day, sitting motionless, pensive on the stairs. He had been scrunched over, gently stroking the cracks in the tiles with his finger tips, gazing fixedly at the grime as it oozed out from the unwashed corners. News of his dismissal had spread quickly, a ripple effect flowing speedily from department to department. Weaver always had been a force to be reckoned with. Whatever argument had occurred between them had instigated some sort of explosive realisation for Dave. His downward progression had been rapid. He was one person who she had expected to take anything and everything in his stride. Looking at him now, she could only realise how wrong she was.

His shattered form lay still, limbs stretched out awkwardly and slowly deteriorating. Perhaps he was giving up, maybe he was through with life. He was broken, beyond repair. This might have been his way of leaving everything he once knew behind. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, or even if he knew she was there, but even so, in her heart she spoke to him, willing him to struggle on:   

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

_You are beautiful,_

_No matter what they say,_

_Words can't bring you down,_

_Don't let them bring you down today._

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

**Authors Note:**

Thank you for reading. I think that's the longest chapter I've written so far! A special thanks to all who have reviewed so far – The She Devil, Bek, Shattered Reality, LIBlonde, batmite, Elisa, Zimbing, Dru, Queen-Misift-01, Juleah and Ashley.

The song words are of course from Beautiful by Christina Aguilera, not completely correct, but roughly the same!

On a final note, I won't be able to update for a while because of exams, but I will as soon as possible. As always, please review!

~*~TinyStar~*~


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